Why Vince Hates Jazz
by cookiemunster
Summary: When the present becomes too much like the past, can Vince save his friends and free himself from his ghosts?
1. Chapter 1

**It's a question I feel we have all wondered… why does Vince Noir hate Jazz? Well here's my interpretation of the whole fandango. It'll probably be only two or three chapters in all (I tried to cramp it down into a one shot but it'd be a very long one!)

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**Why Vince Hates Jazz**

Howard Moon was in his element.

He was on his hands and knees, in a crusty old book shop, searching through a mouldy, decrepit bookcase for mouldy, decrepit Jazz reference books. Every so often he made a noise like 'Hoo-shanna!' and shoved another rotting book onto a growing pile of tomes.

He pulled out a small black book and opened it and wrote down the titles (the ones that hadn't crumbled off the covers and spines with age) excitedly; with an HB pencil worn down to a stub. Later he would enter the book names into a larger black book, along with their authors and publish dates. This was what life was all about.

Vince eyed Howard. This was exactly what life wasn't about. Outside, it was a beautiful day, the great lion of autumn had opened it's mouth and roared into the world, turning the treetops golden and red, making the conkers as shiny as mahogany inside their spiney cases, changing the weather from still to bright, breezy and thrilling.

And Vince was stuck inside a book shop, which smelled like mildew and Camel cigarettes. The bookshop owner (who also smelled of mildew and Camel cigarettes) looked up every so often and moved his eyes slowly down Vince's body, and then licked his lips. Vince was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable.

He wanted to be outside. This was the season of scarves, bonfires and toffee apples. Autumn was Vince Noir's favourite season. Not only was it the precursor to winter and Christmas, it also followed summer. Vince's least favourite season. And not because he didn't like getting a suntan.

Vince hated British summers. He didn't mind going away to hot and exotic places. There was just something about the stifling days and the long summer sunsets in England, which reminded him of something buried and intangible in his past.

Howard made another excited noise, which broke Vince out of his reverie.

"Are you done yet? I'm bored!" complained Vince, leaning up against a table then standing up quickly because he felt something go 'squelch' as he leaned back.

"Vince, I hope you realise that within these books that I have found could be the key to the New Sound that we have been searching for? Aye? These wise old jazz wizards could be the key to our success." said Howard

"Ah… a Jazz fan I see." said the man behind the counter, in an odd sounding English accent. It was kind of Croydon mixed with a deep American twang.

"Yes sir." said Howard striding towards the man's 'desk'.

It was less of a desk, more of a massive pile of paper, gas bills, books, tea mugs, a couple of phones and maybe a file or two, a testament to the fact that there may have once, long ago, been a filing system, which had since been abandoned for the pursuit of reading John le Carre novels and eating prawn cocktail crisps.

Vince sighed. He had a feeling that Howard would start chatting to the man about Dizzy Gillespie, and if that happened, there would be very little chance of escaping the shop before sundown.

"I have something that may interest you…" said the book shop owner, rifling through his drawers. (His desk drawers, for the sick minded amongst you).

"This.. is an extremely rare book. Limited printing run, written about 20 years ago, seemed the author and his wife died not long after it went to the publishers, there was no one to collect the royalties and the publishing house dropped it. Still, it's extremely comprehensive." the book shop owner, with a final heave, managed to dislodge the book from the draw.

He placed the thick, dust jacketed book on the table in front of them. He then wiped the dust and breadcrumbs off the cover to reveal the book's title…. and the author.

_**The History of Jazz; a Comprehensive Guide by Vincent Noir **_

Howard turned to Vince, startled by what he'd seen. Vince stood, motionless, staring at the book in front of him. Then he turned on his tail and fled the book shop, knocking over a pile of Mills and Boon 'novels' in his haste.

The door had already banged shut before Howard had a chance to react to Vince's behaviour. He turned to run after him, turned back, said to the shop keeper 'Can you save them?' gesturing to the pile of books, and then turned back to run after Vince when the shop keeper nodded the affirmative.

"Vince!" Howard yelled after the younger man as he ran out of the shop door. Vince was already down the road, heading for the park. He didn't turn around when Howard yelled his name. Instead he picked up his pace. He didn't want Howard to catch up, he didn't want to talk about it he didn't even want to think.

His mind, however, had other ideas. The thoughts were whirling around inside him, like a washing machine on overdrive. Why, after all these years, had that book resurfaced? Why had he reacted like that? Why did it still hurt so much?

A gust of cold wind blew straight at Vince, making his eyes water slightly, providing him with a distraction from his melancholic confusion. He pulled his green scarf tighter around him and shoved his hands into his black felt trench coat pockets.

"Vince!" Howard again.

Vince knew he should stop, turn round and wait for his friend, and assure him he was alright. But Vince didn't feel like lying to Howard again. Despite the fact he'd got so damn good at it over the years.

Instead, he quickened his pace, ignoring the gnawing pain of a stitch that was slowly growing in his side…..

"_Are you OK, darling?"_

Stop….

"_Does it still hurt?"_

Please stop…

"_Dad will be home soon." _

Just stop it please….

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_**Twenty years previously…**_

' _Summertime and the livin' is easy…' _

"Good morning Vince!" said Verity Noir, opening Vince's _Magic Roundabout _curtains, making folds in the design so Ermintrude and Dougal folded like accordions.

The summer sunshine streamed into the room, forcing Vince to open his eys and then clamp them shut again.

"Hi, mum" mumbled Vince, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his one good hand.

"Are you OK darling? Does it still hurt?" asked Verity , walking up to Vince and sitting down on the bed next to him.

"Nah, it's not too bad." he said.

He looked up at his mum. She had shiny blue eyes, like his own, and raven black hair, which fell in waves, like an inky sea. She wasn't very tall, but she had the kind of energy and personality which gave the impression of someone much taller. She was wearing a plain red t shirt and jeans and her hair was plated and then coiled round into a bun.

She gave Vince a big hug, enveloping him in her comforting scent of wild flowers and shampoo.

"There's my brave little punk! If you will go smashing up bass guitars though darling."

"I was being Joe Strummer, mum! And the doctor said I only had to wear the cast for a few weeks!"

Verity laughed, her eyes lighting up at the sounds of her son's protests.

"Well then, Mr. Strummer, are you just going to lie around in bed all day or are you going to let your mum help you get dressed?"

"Mum, I'm nearly eight years. I'm capable of dressing myself." said Vince in a 'duh' voice.

"Oh really? With one working arm and one in a cast? OK then give me a laugh, I'll be downstairs getting breakfast sorted. Dad will be home soon!" she said as she sailed out of the room and down the stairs...

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"_Vince?"_

"_Vince?"_

"Vince!"

Vince opened his eyes, to see the face of Howard looming inches away from his own, the older man's face etched with concern which quickly turned to relief.

"What… what happened?" asked Vince. He could feel a dull pain in his legs and back.

"You collapsed! I thought you'd fallen over but then I caught up with you and you hadn't moved…" Howard's voice was still a little shaky.

"Oh.." Vince sat up slowly, feeling numb. "I only had a Pop Tart for breakfast, I knew I should've had some toast but when I came to the bread bin there was only some of that weird bread that Naboo buy's from the Magic Mart and I didn't fancy it, because it tastes like ice cubes even when it's been toasted-"

Howard cut Vince off mid ramble. "Vince, what happened?"

"I fainted, you saw me."

"No… what _really_ happened?" asked Howard looking into Vince's eyes, waiting for an answer.

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**You'll just have to wait and see Mr. Moon! Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Why Vince Hates Jazz **

**Chapter 2**

Vince sat staring out of the slightly steamed up windows of the café. He watched condensation dribble down the window, like tears running down a huge glass face, until eventually they were quenched on the wooden window frame.

Not that Vince was really seeing any of this. He'd been 'looking' out of that window for about five minutes and he hadn't seen a single thing. His eyes were focused on images of the past that kept rising up before him, then receding like the tide.

His mind was still spinning at a shaky velocity, thanks to his collapse earlier on. Howard had helped him stand and walk to the café. Howard had kept asking him questions, but he was met by pained, pale faced stares. Vince hadn't heard a word his best friend had said, practically from the point where they were affronted with that book.

The book. It brought Vince back down to earth with a jolt, slowing his thoughts to an almost absolute stop. A book written by Vincent Noir….

"Here you go, black coffee." said Howard, placing the steaming mug in front of Vince.

Vince said something that resembled 'Thanks' and then went back to his thoughts.

"I ordered some malt loaf too… I think you need something to eat, we don't want you collapsing again!" joked Howard in the most jokey voice he could muster.It was about as jokey as a terminally hamster on a life support machine.

He looked at the younger man across the table. He'd never seen Vince like this. His hair was slightly disheveled, in a non-deliberate way and he looked so pale. More than that, he looked_ harrowed_. Almost like he'd, well, seen a ghost.

Howard realised that it there was something more underneath this. The Jazz book with Vince's name on it had awakened something dark and hidden. And it'd scared the crap out of him. (Not literally)

Vince looked at Howard, who was halfway through taking a gulp of tea. He wondered how he would react when he told him. There was no avoiding it now; Vince had to tell Howard certain details about his past that he'd never admitted to anyone. Only Bryan Ferry knew the story and even he hadn't known the finer details.

"Howard, about the book..." Vince began.

Howard looked up.

"Well… I didn't write it."

Howard looked confused as well he might.

"But it has your name on it… and you ran off when you saw it." he reasoned.

"Yes but I didn't write it."

"But it has your-

"No it doesn't." said Vince forcefully. Howard looked even more confused than before.

"It has my father's name on it." said Vince, leaning back in his chair.

He looked more relaxed, as if admitting this one fact made everything easier. In a way it did, but Vince knew there was still a painful story to recount, if any of this was to make sense.

"So… you're Vince Noir the second?" asked Howard.

Vince let out a short laugh. "No, I'm more like the eighth. It's a family name."

"I see. So you didn't write the book?"

"No"

Silence ensued. Howard couldn't really work this out. Even though he had learned something, he couldn't work out how that fitted in with Vince's reaction.

"So, don't you get on with your father?"

"My dad's dead. And my mum." said Vince.

Vince's gaze returned to the window pane. Normally he would have perhaps doodled his name or a little drawing on the window with his finger. Now, though, the thought didn't even enter his head.

Howard remembered what the book shop owner had said: '_Written about 20 years ago, seemed the author and his wife died not long after it went to the publishers, there was no one to collect the royalties and the publishing house dropped it'_

"Oh, I'm sorry. You… why didn't you ever tell me?" asked Howard.

"You never asked." Vince stated.

"That's not true, I asked you about you're…" Howard trailed off when he realised he'd never really asked Vince about his parents.

Howard knew about Vince being raised in the forests, by Bryan Ferry, but the rest..

The malt loaf arrived, and was ignored by both of them. Vince was summoning up the courage to say something.

"My dad was a Jazz musician... he played the trumpet" said Vince, in a rush.

"What?" Howard asked, very confused.

"And my mum. She was a Jazz singer"

"I… I've never heard of them" said Howard. It was true. Howard didn't remember a couple called 'Noir' as Jazz musicians.

"Nope… no one knew them as Vince and Verity Noir. But I guess you've heard of Vinny Black and Ruth T." said Vince, a slight twist to his lips as he said the stage names his parents had adopted.

"Your parents… are Vinny Black and Ruth T? They're absolute legends! I mean, Vinny, and his mask… and Ruth's voice! I mean everything about them, their showmanship, their secretiveness, I mean even their mysterious disappearance, it's just..." Howard trailed off.

Vince nodded. Vinny and Ruth had had a lot of diehard fans, some who were convinced that they weren't actually dead, just in hiding. It made Vince feel weird, so many people still listening to his parents records, but not even knowing the first thing about who they really were.

To Vince, they weren't famous jazz musicians. They were his mum and dad. His mum who used to sing to sing weird versions of pop songs and his dad who used to tell bizarre stories that always came to abrupt finishes. Vince wondered if he'd inherited anything off them.

Howard decided to take a safer line of questioning before he asked what happened to Vince's parents.

"Why didn't they use their real names?" he asked.

"Because of me, I guess." said Vince smiling wistfully.

"You see, they were so popular and famous, they knew that there'd be pressure on me to become something. You know, people might assume I would be some kind of jazz genius or something. So they hid their names. Dad was Vinny Black and mum's name Verity, means Truth. It became Ruth T, you see.Dad used to perform in a mask... in real life we looked so alike. He had a beard though, but otherwise, I was like a carbon copy. Mum used to say she got confused between us." Vince grinned.

But his smile soon receded, and a dark shadow drew back across his face.

"That was before **_he_** got hungry." Vince whispered, darkly.

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**Juicily Dangling….**

**By the way, I didn't write 'Summertime'(some of the words were featured in the last chapter) it's from a great musical called _Porgy and Bess_. I also don't own the Mighty Boosh, but I do own the characters of Vince's Mum and Dad. **

**Thank you so much for the reviews, it's really encouraging to get feedback! This story had been ticking about for ages and this chapter took some honing… hopefully the next one will be up faster! Please reveiw, Vince needs you!!!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Why Vince hates Jazz**

**Chapter 3**

Howard looked at Vince questioningly.

"When who…?"

But Vince had already stood up, with a look of determination on his face.

"C'mon. I want to go home." he said.

Howard had to chuck his money at the passing waitress and run after Vince, who had already swept out onto the windy street to hail a cab.

As he opened the door, the wind blew over Vince's face, bringing with it a refreshing sensation of chill. He hoped this might blow away his painful memories; but Vince's thoughts were still focused on hot summer nights and long shadows. Long shadows that hide dark, dark secrets.

Vince shook himself, sending a shiver down his spine, as uncomfortable sensation of fear and panic began to rise in his chest. He bit it down and hid it from Howard who was now talking to him. Well, talking at him.

"Vince? Please …..just tell me what's wrong." pleaded Howard.

'_Just'_

It would've made Vince laugh if it wasn't so bloody depressing. Howard was acting like this was just one of those things that happened, like setting fire to the sequins on your mittens when you try and warm them in the microwave or accidentally unleashing a swarm of locusts in an old people's home.

It wasn't. This was something wretched. Something terrible and hellish. Something… evil. Something that Vince couldn't just talk about.

The cab drew up by them and Vince yanked open the door with severity and slid across the seat to the far side, by the steamed up window. He clamped his eyes firmly on something in the middle distance, so he didn't have to talk to Howard.

Vince didn't want to hurt him like this. It wasn't his intention; it was just an unfortunate bi-product of the situation. If he told the truth, the whole truth, it would probably sicken Howard so much that he might come to hate Vince. And Vince couldn't bear for that to happen.

So instead he kept his silence. Howard sat confusedly wondering what could've happened to Vince, as well as being worried for his friend. The Cabbie felt sorry for the beardy guy with the moody girlfriend.

The cab pulled up outside the flat ten minutes later, in which time all that had been said by the occupants of the cab was traffic/ customer/ weather related. This had been between the Cabbie and Howard. Vince hadn't uttered a sound.

Howard opened the door on his side and turned to talk to Vince, but the younger man had already got out of his side. He walked round, shoved a tenner in Howard's hand and walked straight up to the door of the building and let himself in, before Howard could say anything to him.

Howard sighed and leaned through the window to pay the driver.

"That'll be 8 quid please, mate. And don't worry 'bout her, it's probly time of the month. She'll come round soon." said the Cabbie, giving Howard and wink as he doled out the change.

"Oh yeah.." said Howard, feeling even more confused as the cab pulled away.

Vince walked straight through the living room, ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, Naboo and Bollo's calls of 'Hi'.

He walked into his bedroom and shut the door, leaned against it and, for the second time that day, crumpled to the floor.

He hadn't passed out this time; instead he sat with his arms clasped around his legs, his back pressed against the door. He felt sure that someone would try and get in.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, he heard Howard bang on the door and say 'Vince! Let me in!' then came some confused muffles from Naboo and Bollo. Then after some explanatory muffles from Howard, all three began banging on the door.

Vince sighed. He rested his head on his knees, and attempted to block out the noise of his friends. He eventually realised that this wouldn't work, so he stood up and swung the door open.

Howard nearly fell on top of him and Naboo and Bollo looked shocked at Vince's scruffy, unkempt appearance.

Vince's eyes were glowing an intense, determined blue. He gazed at his friends, pulled himself up to his full height and said;

"Do you think you could be quiet please? I'm trying to read."

Howard stared at Vince.

"What?" Howard burst out, loudly. "Vince, you need to explain-"

"No, I don't. Because it's my life, my family, my dad's book… and none of your business." Vince spat out, vehemently, his eyes fixed squarely on Howard's gaze.

Vince watched as the look in his friend's eyes changed from concerned compassion, to hurt anger. Vince almost regretted what he had said, but it was too late to take it back now. He simply closed the door quietly and leaned his dressing table chair up against the handle. He pushed a black swathe of hair from his brow and rested his hand over his eyes… but this did nothing, nothing at all to stop the vision of a pair of glowing, red lights burning right through his past, into his present mind.

Howard stared at the door for a minute then he too turned and walked away, down the stairs and straight back out of the building.

Bollo and Naboo, confused and a little worried about Vince (for all they had learnt was that he had collapsed that morning) could do nothing but shrug their shoulders and turn back to Trisha. At least the people on the telly weren't afraid to talk about their problems.

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**It will be explained... It will I promise!! And soon. But I need nice things said to me cos I'm utterly vain and a reveiw whore. So click the button... you know you want to... ; )**


	4. Chapter 4

**Why Vince Hates Jazz **

**Chapter 4**

Vince stared out from the backstage area, peaking through the swathes of purple and blue and green cloth to catch a glimpse of the stage.

The atmosphere in the club was heady, euphoric, as smoke mingled with laughter and the strains of a few well worn jazz classics, playing from a decrepit old record player. The _Poltergeist Jazz Bar_ was gearing up for the biggest night of the year and the excitement was tangible in the hot summer evening.

Vince watched as the exotic people in the club wandered round, holding drinks and swapping names, wearing colourful outfits. He saw as their shadows stretched out in the intense orange sunset. It was a magical night… one that held promise, mystery and intrigue. Vince was transfixed by the beauty of it.

"Caught you!" said a voice near Vince's ear as a pair of hands grabbed him round the waist and began tickling him mercilessly.

Vince yelped in protest but eventually gave way to the waves of laughter that bubbled up inside him. His assailant soon stopped and set him down with a ruffle of his hair.

"Aww Dad!" protested Vince, as 'Vinny Black' grinned back at him.

"How's the arm, mate?" asked Vinny as he knelt down next to his son. Vince always loved it when his dad called him 'mate'.

"Oh you, know, it's ok. Didn't hurt much.. really." said Vince, aware that he spent the whole ambulance journey clinging to Verity with the thumb of his good hand in his mouth.

Vinny scrutinized Vince's cast, already a multicouloured plaster tattoo on his son's arm.

"All my friend's signed it!" said Vince, with pride, "And everyone at the club! Look, Bryan even signed it!"

Vinny saw 'Bryan Ferry' written in stylish script on the cast, completely at odds with the various 'Get well soon's and the various 'Somebody woz ere'. Vince had always been a popular kid, with his cheery disposition, friendly, open manner and the fact that he was completely loopy.

"Looking good, son." said Vinny.

Verity swept through to the backstage fro her dressing room. Her black hair was loose and fell in a cascading, inky waterfall down her back. A couple of red gardenias were pinned at the side of her head and her flowing red dress looked like the petals of the flower she wore in her hair.

"Wow.. you're looking good too!" said Vinny, walking over to his wife and pulling her into an embrace.

"Oi, mind my lipstick!" she protested laughingly.

"God you two… get a room!" said Vince.

Both Verity and Vinny laughed and Vinny picked up his son.

"You settle down, Vince, my boy, or I'll be forced to sentence you to death by tickling!" Vinny grinned at his son.

"Two minutes guys!" said the runner, somewhat breathlessly. He stopped and smiled at the scene in front of him.

"Hey, hold it right there!" he said as he picked up the club's photographer's camera, which was stored in the backstage area.

Verity put her arms around Vince and Vinny and Vinny put his free arm round Verity, drawing the family together.

"Okay… say cheese!"

_FLASH _

Vince sat up with a start, breathing heavily, his heart pounding as the camera flash of twenty years ago brought him back to the present. He was aware that his bed sheets and his clothes were soaked with sweat. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to get his breathing back to normal.

Vince stood up, shakily, and leant against the bed frame for support. He reached out to the shelf and pulled out a small, wooden cigar box. Sitting down again on the bed he opened the box and rifled through its contents, before finding what he was looking for.

He pulled out the photograph. It was twenty years old and slightly yellowing at the edges, and Vince had looked at it so many times that it was a wonder that the images hadn't completely faded.

There was his mum, her red dress and flowers in her hair. His dad, in a black shirt and trousers and silver tie, mask-less before the gig. And there was Vince, as of old, unruly sandy gold hair, flares and a blue t-shirt and the colourful cast on his arm.

This was the last picture ever taken of Verity and Vinny while they were alive. Vince sighed, as if trying to expel all the painful emotions ignited in him, and dropped the picture onto his bed side table, pushed the hair from his eyes and wandered over to the bay window.

Vince saw that the sky was overcast… grey depression had descended on the beautiful autumnal day.

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Howard stormed down the windswept road. He didn't know exactly which emotion he should settle on as some many were jostling for a place in his thoughts at once. He felt confusion, anger, sympathy and worry all at once. He continued down the road, despite the driving wind, which was bringing with it grey storm clouds over head… and an icy, deadly chill to the air.

Something in the back of Howard's mind was bothering. A long forgotten incident between him and Vince that he hadn't even considered in years. Only now had Howard begun to realise the significance of what had happened that day, two years ago when Howard decided to play Vince some jazz records.

"_Vince, this is an absolute classic" Howard had said, excitedly, as he removed the shining, liquorice coloured 12 inch from it's protective covering._

_Vince had sighed and turned back to his book. _

"_Whatever Howard" he said, turning the page and then stopping, his entire body suddenly rigid as a painfully familiar tune filled the living room of the flat._

"_**You don't have to blame yourself… not anymore…"** sang Ruth T __her rich voice soaring and swelling with each new bar as Vinny Black's melancholic, but no less beautiful guided and was intensified by Ruth's solo._

"_Turn it off" said Vince, his voice unusually devoid of the upbeat notes that seemed to define his character._

"_No, wait she hasn't got to the good bit yet!" protested Howard._

"_I said turn it off." Vince said, his voice quiet and threatening. _

_Howard leaned over and removed the stylus from the vinyl, slightly confused. He turned back to ask Vince what that was about when he heard the door bang shut. He was gone._

Maybe it was because Howard was thinking about the past, or maybe it was the fact that **_he _**was always so quiet. Whatever the circumstance, by the time Howard realised, it was already too late…

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**I know, I know, I'm evil. So shoot me. No wait!! Put the gun down!! Anyway, tahnks to all my fantabulous reveiwers (Sophie!! I miss you so much man!!woman) Please reveiw cos I love it... **


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Vince tried to stop the memories, but they were bombarding him thick and fast…painful and suffocating, spinning round him in a whirling grotesque dance.

He sat down again on the bed, shaking_. Get a grip_, he told himself insistently. But he knew he had to go back... he couldn't stop remembering that night...

_20 years previously…_

"Right, little man, we've got a show to do." said Vinny, setting Vince back down on the floor.

Verity kneeled down, so as to look her son in the eyes. Vinny giggled slightly as he picked up his stage mask and fastened it to his face. It looked deliberately incongruous with his black attire. Vinny knew exactly what Verity was about to say to their son.

"OK Vince, if you want, you can get blind drunk this evening, dance with all the girls and have all the fun you want and when you finally get home after your wild night of partying, you can sleep in the shed. Or you can stay backstage with Bryan and watch the gig and when we get home, you can sleep in your own bed. And you might even get a hot chocolate."

Vince grinned. He loved his mum's insane ultimatum. As if he'd want to drink alcohol (it smelt dreadful... like Auntie Irene's breath at Christmas) or dance with girls (Yuck!). He just wanted to watch the gig with Bryan Ferry, like he always did.

And then he'd meet the band at the end and they'd give him plectrums and old double bass strings to add to his jazz memorabilia collection. Sometimes they'd give him a beer mat from a bar in New Orleans. Once, Joey, the piano player with the widest smile Vince had ever seen, had given Vince a piano key from Art Tatum's piano. It was one of Vince's most prized possessions.

Vince loved the _Poltergeist_ club too… there was something homely about it. Vince knew everyone who worked there, the bar staff, who made him virgin cocktails with little umbrellas, the waiters, who told him ghost stories (the club was reputed to be haunted) and let him collect glasses, the waitresses who were all in love with him because he was so cute. And of course he knew the band.

But the thing Vince loved most was the music, the jazz with its dizzying heights and mournful lows, the bebop with its slamming rhythms, the Blues that could reduce a grown man to tears…

When the music was playing, Vince could feel it invading his emotions, manipulating him, stirring him up or dragging him down. He loved it. He really loved it.

* * *

"Well, well, well… If it 'ain't Howard Moon…It's been a long time since I crept inside your warm carcass, boy!"

Howard stared at the grotesque vision in front of him… the wraith from his dreams; the malevolent figure of his nightmares… was now in front of him. He felt his spine go rigid, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It couldn't be… could it?

Howard looked at the being in front of him… he took in the gleaming white suit, the in-human face with the startling bone white highlights against the midnight black of it's skin. The white top hat, with the long dark dreads spilling from underneath it, like snakes, coiling round prey.

A laugh elicited from the demon, a deep cackle, devoid of mirth as he lifted his head and fixed Howard with a red eyed gaze.

Howard felt his mind screaming _'RUN!'_ but his body didn't move his feet seemed like they had taken root on the cold pavement below him. He couldn't tear his eyes from the dual red light of the being's sickeningly intense stare… he could feel himself… being pulled… in….

* * *

Vince suddenly snapped out of his daydream. He could feel… something. A cloying sense of anxiety began to creep up on him, like the sudden realization you've forgotten Valentine's Day and your significant other has bought you something expensive and possibly diamond encrusted.

He felt his breath go short and his mouth go dry. He could feel… the 'thing' that had murdered his parents….

_The Spirit of Jazz_

_

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_**Apologies! It's been ages and I come back with that horrifically written and stupidly short chapter. Please forgive me. So... If you wanna find out what happens next I suggest you just click that 'lil button.. go on... you know you love me! xxxxx for Corrine, esp. she's always there for me... singing on web cam and pulling shapes like a motha-bitch!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Vince grabbed a small, brown leather address book from the drawer in his bedside table. The cover of the book bore the initials _V.N_; the book had belonged to Vince's father. In the days when mobile phones were built like breeze-blocks, Vinny had always carried the weather-beaten book, to take down addresses and phone numbers.

Vince scrawled through the pages until he found the address and phone number he needed. Praying that he hadn't moved, he reached for his mobile and dialed with shaky hastiness, and felt his stomach do a back flip with each buzz of the dialing tone.

Ten minutes later Vince flung his bedroom door open and hastily ran to the top of the stairs, stopping short when he realised he didn't have his shoes, his coat, his keys or his shaman. This situation definitely called for Naboo. Vince quickly sourced his shoes, coat and keys and, with some trepidation, knocked on Naboo's door.

'_Please don't let him be stoned, Please don't let him be stoned' _whispered Vince under his breath as he heard Naboo call 'Yeah?'

Vince opened the door and was relieved to see Naboo surrounded by records, sorting out his vast collection of vinyl. Naboo wouldn't do that if he was heavily baked.

"Hey Vince," Naboo said, tentatively, to his friend "How are you?"

"I'm…." Vince didn't know how he was. He had never felt so mixed up, so empty, yet so full of anger and hatred, so ready to fight but also lay down in defeat, so scared, so lost, but yet so focused.

"I'm…" Vince waved his hands in the air in a manner which he hoped would convey the swirling emotions that were raging tumultuously inside him.

Naboo nodded. Being a Shaman, he understood even the most oblique gesticulation.

"Naboo… I have a favour to ask…" Vince quickly gave Naboo a brief outline about what had happened that day. Naboo listened with typical aloof silence, until Vince mentioned the Spirit of Jazz.

"You sensed him too?" asked the tiny Shaman, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He'd sense the sinister presence, but hadn't mentioned it to Howard or Vince. He didn't want to worry them… but come to think of it, Vince had been shut away in his room for hours and Howard…

Vince nodded. "I'll never be able to forgot his presence." he said, his eyes hardening.

Naboo looked at the young man, quizzically. The shaman didn't know why Vince felt such a powerful hate for the Spirit of Jazz, but it was obvious he did. It was plain to see in his defensive body language, the way his voice ran into an icy whisper whenever he spoke of him.

"Naboo… I know someone that can help us get rid of him once and for all." said Vince, trying not to wince at the cheesy action-movie phrase that, yes, he had actually just used.

"His name's Joey. He was a piano player at the _Poltergeist_ club… my parents knew him. After… stuff happened, Joey managed to sort it out… I think he's voodoo priest or something. He did a cleansing ritual at the club."

Not that the _Poltergeist_ was ever the same again. There was a scandal after Ruby and Vinny's deaths. The area that the club had been situated in had become an exuberant hip-Jazz scene in the late seventies. But scandal spreads like cancer, eating away at anything living, damaging and corroding, seeking to engulf all that is good and leaving destruction and decay in its wake.

After two unexplained deaths on the premises, the _Poltergeist_ began to fall to pieces. The band refused to play there anymore, giving feeble excuses, when everyone knew that the stench of murder hung in the air at the club. More than that the smell of death had ingrained itself into the very soul of the club, staff drifted away, the manager became depressed, some said even suicidal, until he sold the place. After the sale, the club changed hands in quick succession.

Various people tried to rejuvenate the club, one manager in the mid-eighties had even tried the sick venture of making a shrine to Ruby and Vinny in the back room where their bodies were found. Needless to say, it didn't pay off. The club changed hands one more time before it was gutted in a fire and the proprietor picked up a fairly sizeable insurance check.

The club had been marked for demolition for some time and it was due to be knocked down sometime in the next few months, to make way for starter homes for young families. Vince wondered if with the club gone, would the ghosts of the past leave too? He somehow doubted it.

He still went back there from time to time. The _Poltergeist _had been original been built as a Victorian concert hall, all domes and columns and the impressive façade still stood there. But the magic that had appealed to Vince all those years ago had left the place. The stained glass windows that had glittered like jewels in the night had been smashed in, either by the fire or by bored vandals, looking for a cheap laugh. Now the windows were like empty black eye sockets, staring out sullenly on the world.

The shining white brilliance of the lovingly painted stone had faded to dirty dishwater grey, with black smuts of ash and soot around the windows. The door had been nailed shut, planks of wood barring the way of any squatters.

Not that anyone, no matter how desperate, would want to spend the night in the _Poltergeist_. Even in the middle of the day, the place seemed to have an air of decided melancholy, which changed to menacing fear when darkness fell. The place was undoubtedly haunted.

Vince shifted in his leaning place by the wall and became away that Naboo was talking to him.

"So where's this Joey live, then?" asked the shaman, standing up and going over to where Bollo, his familiar, was napping on a bean bag. He shook him awake.

"He lives in Tooting... I spoke to him a minute ago." Vince allowed himself a small smile.

Joey still had a voice that sounded like he was always laughing at a private joke in his head, even though the laughter sounded more strained these days. Joey was thrilled to hear from Vince.

"_It's been too long! Last time I saw you, you were still living with Bryan Ferry!" Joey laughed._

"_It has been a while." Vince replied, feeling like an absolute tool. The first time he makes contact in years, and he just wanted to use Joey's talent. _

"_You sound just like him, y'know" Joey insisted._

"_Who?" Vince had asked. _

"_Vinny of course! You were always the spit of him, and now you sound like him…" Joey trailed off, sounding sad._

_Vince winced. He was aware of the similarity to his father. Every time he brushed his hair, stood in front of a mirror, there was Vinny, frowning back at him. On one hand, it was comforting, to see his father in himself. But at the same time, it caused him a little pain to see the father he loved, but would never know again._

"_That's.. kind of why I called you. **He's** back." Vince said quietly._

"_Santa Maria… we have to act fast. I'll meet you… at the club." Joey said. _

_He didn't need telling who 'he' was. And he knew that 'he' needed to be stopped. Joey had chosen the club because it was an old haunt of the spirit and from his vast experience as a mediator, ghosts are creatures of habit._

"_Thanks Joe-" Vince said, but was only met with the 'click' of the receiver. _

Bollo mumbled something as he woke, brining Vince back again.

"We better go get Howard." Vince said matter -of -factly.

Naboo and Bollo quickly exchanged worried glances.

"What?" asked Vince, although he could feel the ball of tension in his stomach knot ever tighter.

"He... he hasn't come back… he went out at least five hours ago." Naboo said the fear in his eyes obvious. The Spirit of Jazz was notorious for revisiting his victims.

"I gotta bad feeling about this." said Bollo.

* * *

Howard awoke and instantly regretted it. As reality bit harshly into his aching body, he began to remember vague periods of the last hour or so. A white shape, glowing red eyes, a sharp pain in the side of his head… being dragged… somewhere… here.

He tried to move, but found that his hands were bound together and tied to the chair he was seated in and his legs were also tied together and fastened to the chairs legs.

Whoever... or _What_ever had tied him up had done a good job, the knots double bound for extra strength, the thick rope twisting into Howard's skin, making painful red welts on his arms and ankles. If he struggled, every nerve in his limbs screamed out in agonizing protest. His head ached as he tried to move it into a more comfortable position.

Howard tried to look around but through the inky darkness there was very little he could see. He managed to make out what looked like an old cocktail bar across from him, the brass fittings that would've once gleamed proudly, faded and blackened.

It smelled like the place had suffered a great deal of fire damage, the acrid smell of smoke hung in the air, along with the scent of damp and decay. He could a distant drip of a leaky pipe, but other than that, silence filled the cavernous room he found himself in.

The silence unnerved Howard. It was only a matter of time before something happened to fill it.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to three people! Corrine, for being ever faithful and truly lovely (but a bit ill at the mohugs), Becky for being so well behaved last night, when I know she wanted to just throw her drink over a certain someone (hahahah!!!!) and Sophie, the absent Obsession Whore! You're always in mine and Becky's hearts. But not in a lesbian-y way : ) )**

**I get a bit teary-eyed writing this. Is that weird? I think it is. Anyway, as always, your reviews keep me going! They fuel my spirit! Thank you so much for your kind support… now go offer some more. Click clikckity click click!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Vince, Naboo and Bollo stepped off the magic carpet. Darkness had fallen and drizzle had begun to fall, increasing the chill in the air and making the deserted street glisten in the lamp light. Silently, the trio headed towards the monstrous façade that was the empty shell of the _Poltergeist._

With every step, Vince's nervousness increased, the churning in his gut intensified and the instinct to turn and leg it become more and more potent. Only one thing kept him going: the knowledge that Howard, somewhere inside of that awful place, was in trouble. He knew it, he could feel it. He could sense the Spirit of Jazz's presence and his best friend's pain.

His spine was rigid when he walked. He was angry, angrier than he had felt in a long, long time. Angrier than when the Arcade Fire gigs sold out in under a minute and he couldn't get tickets. Angrier than when his staraighteners caught fire and the NMEs that they had been resting on caught fire… bloody magazine, flimsy pages like kindling. He hadn't been this angry since…

Suddenly, Vince felt a hand grab his arm and hold it tightly. He turned quickly to face the hooded figure that was gripping his arm like it was in a vice. He felt the adrenaline kick in as his fight or flight sense kicked in. But the chemicals coursing through his veins were quashed a minute later as he recognized his 'assailant'.

"Joey… it's been too long." said Vince, embracing the older man.

Joey laughed his deep thunderous rumble of a laugh. "It sure has kid." he replied, in his thick North London accent.

Joey didn't look like he'd aged a day, despite the fact that Vince hadn't seen him since he left Brian Ferry's house, some ten years earlier. Joey was thickly set, small broad and muscular. He had thick jet black afro hair, cut close to his scalp and deep laughing eyes. His skin was the colour of espresso and his smile was wider than the Cheshire cat's. But this evening his face was marked with seriousness and a level of fear.

He was dressed in black cords and a long yellow smock, with an interesting weaved sun pattern on it. Over that he wore a grey cloak, which was tied at one shoulder with a turquoise and fold broach with a weird star pattern on it. Naboo immediately recognized the star as a pentagram, an ancient pagan protection symbol which was believed to ward of evil spirits.

"This is Naboo… he's a shaman. And this is Bollo, his apprentice. Guys, this is Joey Gold… he was a great friend of my parents." said Vince, making introductions.

Even though Vinny and Verity had been dead for nearly 20 years, Joey still felt pride at being called their 'great friend'. He only wished he could have done more… saved them on that hellish night….

_**20 years previously…**_

Ruth T's voice soared above the haunting melody of her husband's trumpet, creating a ghostly melancholy that spread around the room, instilling a sense of awe and strange sadness in all of the guests that night. Ruth sang softly, sweetly, an eerie requiem for lost love…

"_You don't have to blame yourself… not anymore…"_

Vince felt someone move into the room behind him.

"Hey Brian!" Vince called out absently.

Vince watched his mother sing and his dad, playing like a demon, his mask firmly in place. He glanced across the room at the various rapt expressions of the audience and felt a bubble of pride in his chest. He looked over to the bar and was surprised to see Brian Ferry, his guardian for the night, getting the virgin Flirtini Vince had requested.

If Brian was over there then who was…?

Suddenly, before Vince had time to turn around, he felt a sharp pain in his good arm as someone grabbed it and twisted it, with some force. The assailants other hand clapped itself round Vince's mouth, so he could not call out.

"If you got halfa brain in yo' head yo' keep yo' mouth shut, right?" hissed a voice in his ear.

Vince, terrified as an eight year old who'd been grabbed by a stranger would be, nodded in dumb terror.

"Now… you're gonna sit here and wait for yo' mommy and daddy, and when they come, I'll let you go, ok?" the voice continued.

Vince nodded again. The intruder let go of Vince's arm and steered him towards a chair, and proceeded to shove Vince onto the chair and with great speed and skilled, he tied Vince to it, tightly binding his hands and legs.

Vince felt hot tears of indignation prick in his eyes as the assailant, who still kept his face in the dark, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. He just wanted to watch his mum and dad on stage.

Vince watched as he bit down the tears and the blurry image of his attacker became clearer. The man was not much taller than his father, with pale skin and large bug eyes. He had a long sloping nose and wore his lank hair long. He wasn't particularly tough looking and he was dressed plainly, but there was something about the man's eyes that made him want to cry out in fear.

"You gotta understand, kid, this aint about yo' mommy or daddy" continued the an, in a strange southern drawl that Vince wouldn't have expected "This aint personal."

The man began to move around the small room with stealth, his thoughts tumbling out of his mouth in a jumbled, psychotic mess.

"You just gotta understand what it's like. Always being the one watching the talent… the skill, desiring that above all things and never getting it. I always wanted to be a jazz musician, always! But I could barely play an instrument. And then Ruth and Vinny are there, playing so well, and I want that! That's why I gotta do thios Vince!"

That startled Vince. No one knew Vince's name, no one knew he was Verity and Vince's, or Ruth's and Vinny's, child. How did this guy know?

"I gotta do this, I gotta become... I gotta be the essence.. the spirit of jazz. And I can't do that without yo' parents help!"

Vince just stared, terrified, confused and curiously at this man. He was clearly insane. He wanted to be the essence of Jazz? What did that mean?

* * *

**Oh you'll find out Vince, don't worry!**

**Thanks to reveiwers, new and old. And sorry about the wait for that chapter, I was trying to work out what I wanted to put in and what I wanted to keep out...** **By the way, the first one to get the very, very vague Star Wars refernce wins a pencil sharpener, and my eternal respect. Please reveiw!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_It had started months before that fateful night. _

_**20 years previously… **_

Vince sat, cross legged, on the kitchen table threading beads onto coloured shoe laces, his thin arms covered in tatty friendship bracelets. He seemed to have a different best friend each week. Verity came into the room, that day's post in her hand. She dropped it on the table and ruffled her son's hair, picking up a shoelace for herself, while clambering up to sit next to him. They sat in companionable silence until Vinny, who'd been having a siesta after a morning's composing, wandered in to get some coffee.

It was early spring and gentle sunlight was shining in through the bay window. The Noir's cat, Bagheera stretched lazily on the window seat, and then curled his long black body into a ball. Vinny grinned at his wife and his son; both busy at their bead patterns and wandered over to the coffee filter, pouring himself a fresh cup, and one for Verity.

He took it over to her and set it down on the table in front of her.

"Thanks" she said, without looking up, threading a violet bead onto the shoestring to complete the rainbow pattern she'd made. Vinny grinned, the pulled a hurt face.

"I do so much for you and you just don't appreciate me!" he said, mock dramatically, throwing a hand over his heart.

Verity looked up and raised an eyebrow. Then she smiled and said "Thank you, darling, light of my life, love of my heart!" in a fakely sweet voice. He blew her a kiss, which she pretended to bat away. Vince sighed and said "Children, please, I'm trying to work" which made them both laugh. Vinny leaned over and ruffled his son's hair and Vince batted his hand away.

"Ohh post" said Vinny and picked up the stack of letters. He sifted through them, opening the ones from record companies, clubs, and music shops, leaving the bills to be sorted out later with the accountant. Then he stopped.

A small brown office standard envelope, had completely floored him. On it, were three words, in standard typewriter script: '_Vinny and Ruth'. _There was no stamp… the letter would have been hand posted. A shiver of fear ran down his spine and he involuntarily pulled the old grey sweater he was wearing closer round him.

As if sensing his discomfort Verity looked up again. Seeing how pale her husband was, concern flooded her face as she said "Vince, are you alright?" all the banter gone from her voice.

"I…" he began and then glanced at Vince, then back to Verity. A look passed between them and Verity knew instinctively what it meant.

"Hey, Vince, why don't you take Bagheera into the living room and watch the _Clangers_?" Verity asked her son.

Vince looked up from his laces, glancing at both of his parents. He sensed that this wasn't the time to argue with them. "Ok" he said and clambered down from the table, walked over to the window seat, slung Baggy over his shoulder and headed to the living room to watch the Soup Dragon and his mates. But he left the door slightly ajar… he wanted to know why his dad looked like someone had told him corduroy was a jazz faux pas.

Vinny sat down in his chair and Verity walked over to him, placing her hands on his arms and kneeling in front of him.

"What is it?" she asked.

He showed her the front of the envelope and gasped slightly. A thousand thoughts ran collectively through their heads. Who knew their identities, why had they chosen to send them a letter to their home and not their record company and how did they even know their home address.

Vinny carefully began to open the letter. He unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. Silently, they both read the letter.

_deer 'Vinny Black and Ruth T'_

_it tuck me a wile 2 find u but i have now. i know where u live and i know your sun. I just want wot i DESERVE i want my JAZZ, u know ho i am i just want wot I NEED._

_ur frend._

"They know about Vince" was the first thing Verity said.

Fear for their child flooded through the Noirs , a tide of dread beginning to swell in the pit of their hearts. They'd had stalkers before, girls trying to follow Vinny home after shows, but nothing had ever been said about Vince. No one knew about their 'sun' apart from a few people at the clubs or the recording studios. This was creepy…. invasive.

Vince sat quietly in the living room, listening to his parents talk, in what they thought were hushed whispers. He caught snatches, words that scared him. 'Stalker…watching the house…knows our names… police…'

Bagheera rubbed his black head against the back of Vince's hand, purring like a velvet engine. Vince scratched the cat behind the ears. Suddenly Bagheera stiffened, his hackles raised, his yellow eyes searching for something on the other side of the window pane.

Vince glanced up, as the sun drifted behind the clouds, peering out of the window to try and see what the cat was staring at and saw a small movement in the front garden… like a ghost drifting through the trees…

* * *

A noise from behind the bar made Howard aware of his surroundings again. He shuddered. He'd been in a semi conscious stupor for what seemed like a century. He peered through the gloom and saw a white shape moving around. Suddenly a white spark of electricity filled the room, as whatever it was accidentally short circuited one of the old power cables that gave the bar light. After a few moments the bar hummed into life, the old neon sign light up the pink lettering spelling out _-he Po-terg-ist. _

The shape had stopped moving. Howard could make out the top hat, the dreadlocks and the glowing eyes. The Spirit of Jazz was laughing quietly. Howard felt his whole body tense. This was his worst nightmare, come back to haunt him.

Howard tried to speak but his voice sounded broken and clipped, like an old radio recording. "It's you…"

"In the flesh, baby!" the Spirit grinned toothily.

"Why- why am I … here?" croaked Howard. His mouth felt like it was lind with cat litter.

"Oh, Moon , I wouldn't want you to miss the party!" the Spirit's grin widened to manic proportions.

"P-party?"

"Oh yeah… you're invited, of course. It was the only way I could get my prey, you know. You see, I been getting weak. I need something to fuel me… an' I thought, who could be better than the child of two of the greatest jazz musicians of all time?" the Spirit had turned to face Howard and was walking slowly across the room.

The sickening truth dawned on Howard. "You want Vince….."

* * *

**Let's leave it there! Dedicated to all my reviewers…. past, present and future! (shameless plug alert by the way... I have a one shot up at the moment that will link into a story that I'll be posting soon... you don't have to go read it but anyone who does will get their choice of one member of The Mighty Boosh cast combined with a night at the Holiday Inn, Kettering... OK that's a lie but go read it, it's fun!)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The club's door was barred, with heavy planks of timber across the entrance, nailed into place with metal spikes. Large padlocks and chains held the doors together behind the planks and, no doubt, the large deadbolts on the inside were drawn, locking the world out of the _Poltergeist_. Naboo and Joey set about reciting an old spell that unblocked barred paths (something to do with 'opensesme' whatever that meant.)

Vince and Bollo stood a little way off, the rain dampening their respective hair and fur. Vince was soaked to the skin, water running in rivulets down his pale skin. Bollo could see the young man shaking slightly as he stared up at the dark cavernous windows of the ex-nightclubBollo was worried about Vince. The sunshine boy had lost his beam and was in danger of never getting it back.

"Are you ok, Vince?" asked Bollo, in his gruff but somehow gentle voice.

Vince looked over to his old friend. He tried, and failed, to smile.

"I – it's this place. I hate coming back here… the memories… the vibes…" he trailed off staring at the building.

"What happened here?" Bollo asked.

But his friend was lost to the ghosts of the past…

_**20 years previously**_

"Vince?" Verity was at the stage door, smacking the wood with herhands, her voice desperate. "VINCE?"

Vince wanted to call back but he'd had duct tape slapped across his mouth. He was trying to wet it with his tongue, hoping that his saliva would loosen some of the tapes stickiness. Unfortunately, Vince's lips were bound shut by the adhesive. The only wetness on his face was the bitter stream of indignant tears.

The assailant had been busy during the show. He'd managed to seal off the curtain, using an old blocking spell that even Joey couldn't break and he'd locked and barricaded the door. Vince watched him, tears streaming silently from his eyes.

He couldn't understand the man. Vince, being eight years old, knew about stranger danger, but he'd never been prepared for this in one of the videos they showed at primary school. In the videos at school, children would be playing in the park and a strange man would amble over and offer sweets. Vince was being held against his will by a psychotic mess of a human. There was nothing an eight year old could do.

The man was now setting out a strange array of magical memorabilia. A few candles (three red, four white) a small white cloth, some herbs, incense and a little white book that looked incredibly old, its leather cover cracked, its pages yellowing and as thin and crackly as autumn leaves.

Then the stranger pulled a few items out of the bag that alarmed Vince even more. A cameo broach that his mother had misplaced in their own home a few months ago, and his father's favourite Mount Blanc pen which he used for musical annotation, which he thought he had left on the train.

Then the stranger poured the herbs into the cloth and tied it up. He lit the candles and the incense and opened the small book. Then he looked up and smiled broadly, his wild eyes starry and blissful, at the terrified child.

"Welcome to the party Vince…"

Outside, Verity and Vince, along with an extremely worried Bryan Ferry (who had raised the alarm) . Verity was practically clawing at the door. Her voice was hoarse and her eyes were red. Usually, at this time, she and Vinny would be in the middle of their set. But the gig had been abandoned, the fate of their son deemed far more important than any Jazz Night. Vinny too, was worried, but held on to his wife steadying her. He called out in the most authoritive voice that he could muster, but he couldn't quite keep the tremor of fear out of it. "Please, just give us our son back and we won't press charges."

No reply. Every second seemed to be moving slower and slower, time had become nonexistent every moment their son was trapped.

Then slowly, whoever was inside with Vince began to inch the creaking door open…..

* * *

"We're in!" called Naboo as Joey's spell worked its magic and the padlocks and wood barring the way melted before their eyes.

Bollo looked at Vince. Vince breathed in shakily, trying to steady his racing mind. Then, with more confidence than he felt, he steeped forward and up the steps and through the entrance, flanked by his friends.

The smell of the dank club hit them first, as long as the lingering stench of smoke from the insurance fire more than anything else, though if you stood in the once grand entrance way for long enough you might catch the faint scent of a long ago smoke cigar, it's fire, like the owner's life, extinguished.

Vince gazed upward at the vaulted ceiling's fresco of angels darting across an effervescent sky. But now the angels were covered in smuts, their gilt wings tarnished. The once deep red staircase had turned a strange blood coloured brown, and the once cream coloured walls had faded to a dirty grey.

They didn't linger long in the depressing entranceway and Vince, overcome with a strange sense of nostalgia and disgust, barreled ahead down various corridors which twisted every which way. The club was like a rabbit's warren, but Vince moved down the corridors like he had a sixth sense for the place.

He actually did. He'd returned there so many times in his dreams. But in his dreams the corridors seemed larger, longer. He'd run along them, hearing agonized screams echoing along the halls but he could never reach them in time. And all the while hysterical, gleeful, terrible laughter permeated Vince's memory, the dream becoming a swirling nightmarish headachy mess which left him awake and shuddering in an empty room, some twenty years later. He was haunted, but he hid it behind a persistently bright persona.

Naboo and Bollo found it hard to take in. They had always accepted Vince as a happy go lucky, eternally bright and cheerful friend. He'd always been around to cheer them up to make them feel good about themselves. They had never thought that Vince could be suffering from so much inner turmoil, so much pain that he kept walled up inside. In a way the both felt a little hurt that he had never truly let himself be known to them, that there was this side to their friend that had been hidden from them. But with that, they also felt respect that Vince hadn't let the secret take over his life. That he had been able to rebuild his life.

_After the murders._

Joey too, watched Vince with admiration. He knew what Vince, as an eight year old, must've seen that night. He knew that it would scare the living daylights out of a adult fully in control of their wits, but to a small child who had already been held hostage, it would've been an absolutely terrifying, harrowing experience. Yet the Vince he saw stalking down the corridors was not a scared man. He seemed strong and determined. Joey was happy to see the most admirable traits of Verity and Vince alive and well in their son.

Vince, for his part, felt that his carefully built life was coming apart at the seams. He'd been careful to keep the two parts of his life separate, the reason why he had never told Howard or the others about life before living with Brian, the reason why he had only now contacted Joey. It hurt him too much, and with the hurt came the fear. That it would happen again. And now, his worst fear was coming true. His closest friend was in danger and Vince couldn't shake the nagging the feeling that it was all his fault.

The silent party traveled down the damp corridors, taking in the dirt and soot stained walls and the dank earthy smell. Eventually they reached the door to the room that haunted both Vince and Joey. The _Poltergeist_ club Jazz Lounge.

"Hey…" said Naboo, pointing at the thin ray of buttery light from inside the room "Someone's in there."

"Yeah…" said Joey. He stole a glance at Vince.

"How come the light is on?" asked Bollo. He'd assumed that the club's electric supply had been cut off.

"The Poltergeist has emergency power cables built in." explained Joey. "This place was used during WW2 as a relaxing place in London where the off duty troops could come and soak up some Jazz" explained Joey, chuckling. "You see this part of the building is underground and thanks to all the Victorian architecture and reinforcements, pretty much bomb proof. So thanks to these emergency cables the club still got electricity during the Blitz. The only problem is that these cables are quite dangerous… especially after the fire. Because that middle cable there" he said, gesturing to thickest wire in the bundle of insulated cables, "… is permanently live. If you touched it with your bare hands, it'd kill you instantly."

Joey realized that he was rambling. But it had bought Vince some time. He had noticed that the young man had lost some of his resolve. He could feel his insides quaking but he refused to give up. He had to do this for his parents, for Howard.

_Howard_.

Vince shoved down hard on the doors and was surprised that they moved apart with ease. His eyes quickly scanned the room and he located his friend and no one else. He rushed over to Howard. His poor friend had been tied to a chair. Vince saw deep red marks in his friend's wrists where he had tried to free himself from his bonds. Howard appeared to be dozing as Vince approached. He knelt down next to his friend.

"Howard?" he asked gently.

Howard, to Vince's relief opened one eye. His other eye was shut, and as Vince grew accustomed to the light cast by the bar, he could see that it was because his friend had a large bruise forming on the side of his head. Vince felt anger welling inside him, but he set about loosening his friend from his captive state, pulling at the rope with his fingers, loosening the tight knots.

By this point Joey, Bollo and Naboo were also in the room, all of them surveying the bar for any sign of the Spirit of Jazz.

Howard smiled slightly, but the smile quickly faded.

"We're going to get out of here Howard, he hasn't done anything to you has he? Oh god, I'm so sorry about this, I'll make it up to you…" Vince babbled.

"He, he doesn't want me…" Howard began to say. He was finding it hard to get his words out properly.

"What, don't try to speak if it hurts you." said Vince still working away.

"He... needs… you… I'm just….bait" Howard rasped.

"What?" asked Vince, suddenly alert.

"He gave… gave me… some… drugs… to make… me sleep. So, you… you couldn't… get away.."

"Drugs?" Vince said his face contorting with incredulity and worry.

"Vince… it's a …trap"

Vince felt his blood run cold as he watched his friend drift out of consciousness.

"Howard?!" Vince grabbed his friend by the lapels. "HOWARD!!" he repeated shaking the lifeless form of his friend.

"Oh he's not going to wake up now. But I'm glad y'all stopped by…" said a voice from behind the bar.

Vince stood up and turned slowly, his stomach swirling with hatred and dread.

"Especially you… Welcome to the party, Vince." The Spirit of Jazz.

* * *

**Ok so I'm sorry it's been a while. But I had stuff on, exams work, mental breakdowns… but yeah should be updating more now. So review please! I promise I'll stick around. Love to everyone who has given me support!**


	10. Chapter 10

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**Chapter 10**

"So, you're back are you?" asked Vince, his voice calm. Inside he was quaking but he managed to keep a veneer of aloofness. He was terrified for Howard, who didn't appear to be breathing.

"Oh I wouldn't miss this for the world…" croaked the Spirit.

Joey, Naboo and Bollo were also frozen to the spot in captivated disgust of the Spirit of Jazz. An odd smell, vaguely familiar, filled the room.

"Oh, if it aint the little shaman and his familiar? Don't think I've forgotten about the time you put me in that Hoover, boy…" the Spirit smiled at the shaman. Naboo hardened his stare and took up a typical defensive stance, one leg forward, one back, sideways on.

Unfortunately, this did nothing to defend him from the lightning strike ball of energy that the Spirit of Jazz conjured up and threw at him. It hit him full in the chest and sent him flying into the wall behind where he had stood. He didn't move from the spot where he fell.

Bollo let a howl and ran across the room set to attack the person who had just harmed his master. But he barely made it halfway across the room when the Spirit threw something that looked like silver glitter through the air. Bollo was frozen, his limbs still stretched out as he had been running a second earlier, his features frozen in a mask of rage.

Vince looked from one to the other of his friend, wondering which one to be more alarmed about. At least Joey was still standing, despite being completely ashen faced.

"How- how did you do _that_?" asked Vince, in complete disbelief with an undercurrent of fear. The Spirit had walked over to near where Vince was, standing just a few feet away from him and the unconscious Howard.

"I picked some things up after your little shaman friend there managed to trap me… I got loose now" he grinned evilly at Naboo's prone body "And I seem to have gotten my revenge."

"But you see Vince, as strong as I am with all this magic, I'm getting weaker by the day…" said the Spirit, his voice had a pleading tone to it.

"What do you mean? You've practically killed three of my friends!" yelled Vince, exasperated with the Spirit.

"Ah but you don't understand Vince… it's been so hard for me… I've been living off your parent's energy for too long… the Jazz is getting weaker in me… which is why I need you…"

"What?" asked Vince, fear and disgust stirring in him. The Spirit had implied that his parents had lived on, but Vince knew they were dead. He'd seen their bodies. Their pale faces, etched with shock as death claimed them, haunted his dreams.

"They have been so good to me over the years…"the Spirit said, a small smile playing over his jet black lips.

Vince felt something very heavy and painful snap inside of him. His heart rate increased and he was barely in control of his sense as he threw himself at the Spirit, lashing out with his fists, all thoughts of the Spirit's incredible magical powers forgotten as his emotions went into overdrive. All Vince could think about was how sick it made him feel that his parents had been murdered and their killer had feasted on their talents for years, like some kind of cannibal.

The Spirit fell back as Vince struck him, obviously surprised by the young man's fury. The pair of them struggled on the floor for a moment, Vince throwing ineffectual punches, sheer rage rather than talent spurring him on. Eventually the Spirit threw a punch at Vince's face, which threw him backwards and he skidded across the floor.

When Vince sat up his lip was bleeding and the room was spinning. The Spirit's red eyes were blazing.

"You're going to regret that, boy" the Spirit said in a low hiss.

Across the room Joey had turned Naboo over and ascertained that the shaman was still breathing. He was slowly coming round, but judging from the bruising around his face and on his chest, he was going to wish he'd stayed asleep.

"Wh-what happened?" he asked his voice croaky and laboured.

"The Spirit of Jazz knocked you out, young friend." Joey said, relieved that the shaman was able to speak.

"I'm four hundred and six!" insisted Naboo.

"Of course you are…" Naboo had obviously hit his head very hard, thought Joey. They were both distracted by Vince yelling from across the large room. He seemed furious.

"Why, why will I regret it? You killed my parents! You murdered them! You destroyed them! Why should I care how you feel?" Vince felt his eyes fill with tears.

"Oh Vince… because we are going to be joined, so very soon… as one… just like your parents were joined with me…" The Spirit replied, his voice having an almost sympathetic tone in it.

"What do you mean?" asked Vince, the fear churning inside of him.

"Recognise this, Vince?" The Spirit of Jazz held up a purple glittery comb, with 'VINCE' written on it in silver letters. He thought he'd lost it after a gig one night. He didn't realise it'd been stolen for more sinister reasons.

Vince suddenly realised what the strange smell was. It was incense. He saw it burning along with seven candles (three red, four white). He also saw the white cloth and the herbs. And that little white book, so innocuous at that moment. But Vince knew of the diabolical power held within those pages. It was this book that had ripped his safe, quiet, little life to shreds.

**20 years ago**

Verity ran straight over to Vince as soon as the door was opened, with Vinny following close behind. Neither of them noticed how the door slammed shut behind them, locking everyone else out of the room. The pair of them began tearing at the bonds that held their son to the chair, saying comforting words to him. Neither of them noticed the man standing in the corner of the room, until he cleared his throat.

Vinny spun round and his eyes registered a familiar face. "You..." he spat and in a smooth movement he sprung across the room and hit the man hard in the face.

"Vinny!" yelled Verity, out of shock. She'd never seen her husband hit anything. She'd only seen him throw his pen across the room once when he couldn't think of a hook for a song and got frustrated. He was such a relaxed guy so why…? And then she saw the owner of the bleeding face and she realised.

"Verity… it's our stalker."

The man grinned, a wide toothy smile splitting his pale face. His long hair was now splayed across his forehead, and blood was dripping down his chin. But his smile didn't waver, it only grew more manic as he pulled himself upright.

"Raith… look, just let us take Vince and we can forget all this." Verity said, trying to keep her voice level as she struggled to free Vince from the tight knots.

Raith. Warren Raith. Former employee of the _Poltergeist. _A young, wannabe American with a faked accent (he was actually from Stoke Newington) who had a keen interest in the voodoo arts. But his main obsession was for Jazz, which is why he applied for a job with the Poltergeist. However, Raith slowly became more and more intrusive on the performer's lives, especially Vince and Verity's, asking them probing questions about their personal lives and family. So the owner of the club, after a number of complaints was forced to fire Raith.

By that point though, Raith had already picked his targets, so his unemployment wasn't an issue. He began his campaign of fear on the Noirs, sending them letters, breaking into their house to steal personal affects and learning the salient piece of information that would be key in their downfall… they had a child.

Vince… a young adventurous child. A boy who moulded in the image of his father and mother… one that had great things coming to him. It was a shame that Raith would have to destroy the child's future, but, he reasoned, that his own need was greater.

He needed this.

He needed to become the Spirit of Jazz.

Raith reached into his pocket and pulled out the small white book. He began to mutter strange incantations, in a weird language, quite unlike any that Verity and Vince had ever heard before. It was perhaps a blessing that neither Verity nor Vinny could read the odd text that Raith was reading from. It would've only served to alarm them more as the grey and purple mist began to swirl around them, filling the room.

The title of the page read '_Exorcising the Soul from Live Beings_'.

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**Please Review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**I don't actually believe in evil as a physical force… and I think it's a massive oversimplification of behaviour. But this isn't a massively complex story and I didn't want to get suckered in to a theological debate… so let's just say it exists in this universe, for the sake of argument! It just makes things simpler. **

**I have a cold! Which is a shame cos I want to go outside and enjoy the lovely Autumn weather… it was days like these that I was describing in the first chapter! Thanks to everyone. Again I'm sorry about the wait, but what can I do? Essays don't write themselves… sadly!**

**Thank you for reviewing, everyone!

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**Chapter 11**

Joey reached down and slid an arm under Naboo's small frame. Helping the small shaman to his feet, the pair of them moved stealthily (well, not really stealthily, more like spasmodically) towards Bollo. The ape was still frozen in time. Joey analysed the small ice-like glittering crystals on his fur.

"What is it?" asked Naboo, who was leaning on Joey so that he could stay more or less upright.

"I'm not sure… I think it's some kind of powder…"

Naboo leaned in closer, examining his familiar's fur.

"Ah it's Sequence Stopper, it's a shamanic party trick powder. I can get him out of it, but it'll take a few minutes." Naboo waved his hand over the ape, and whispered a few magical words. Bollo's fur began to glow and a slight hum filled the air, as his body began to free itself from suspended animation.

"We need to get to Howard… and Vince…" said Joey, eyeing up the unfolding scene. Howard was still unconscious and bound to his chair…

Vince was stood stock still and staring, and the Spirit seemed to be baiting him with something. At least they were no longer fighting… but Joey sensed something… something disturbing… something… familiar…

"Oh my gods…" Joey whispered, almost so Naboo couldn't hear him.

"What?" asked the small shaman, who, after drinking a small bottle of elixir seemed to be on the mend.

"I think… that the Spirit of Jazz is trying to do to Vince… what he did to his parents…" the fear and horror in Joey's voice was palpable.

"What did the Spirit do to Vince's parents?" asked Naboo, his eyes wide with worry.

"He took their souls… he needed their skill as musicians... but he also stole their souls… while they were still alive." Joey said, his voice deep with sorrow and regret.

Naboo felt physically ill. "That's…. that's _evil_…" whispered the tiny shaman.

'Evil' wasn't a word a shaman would use lightly. Evil represented pure malevolence, badness without redemption. It represented a lack of empathy, of understanding, a complete lack of moral code. And now the guy had drugged one of his best friends, was threatening another, had imprisoned his familiar in time… and had nearly knocked Naboo into the middle of next week.

Naboo felt a cloud of anger burst in his heart. It was all so…unjustified.

"How can we help Vince?" asked Joey.

Naboo glanced up at the taller man.

"Help him…?" asked Naboo and then chastised himself. Yes, help Vince. He was a shaman, that's what he was supposed to do, ignore his personal problems and help the helpless. He began to think, while surveying the scene. Vince was still stood still and the Spirit seemed to be taunting him with something…it looked like a book… but he was also holding something else.

"Yes… Of course!" said Naboo, realizing what he could do to help them. "We'll need to be quick and we'll need Bollo."

Across the room, Howard groaned, snapping Vince out of his catatonic state.

"Howard, it's going to be alright" whispered the younger man, his fear for his friend's condition overriding his fear of the Spirit.

The Spirit laughed hollowly. He seemed perversely amused by the whole situation, so different from the one that had taken place twenty years before… yet oddly the same. It was almost sad…

"You're mother said that to you, didn't she?" hissed the Spirit, his voice devoid both of warmth and his usual deep American twang…"That it'd be alright…"

_**

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20 years ago**_

"It's going to be alright Vince, we're going to get out." his mother whispered soothingly into his hair.

At least as soothingly as she could manage as she struggled to rip the fabric of the curtain that would lead her and her family to the safety of the club… however it was still enchanted with a curse and Verity was more likely to break down pillars made of stone than she was to rip that thin fabric.

Vinny was still trying to shut Raith up, but the man kept laughing dementedly and began to whisper strange words from the pages of his book. The words were in some ancient, and bizarre language, but as he said them, the atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken somehow. The air felt heavier, and the strong heady scent of the incense created the pungent smell of a funeral Parlour. The purple and grey mist had begun to deepen in colour, from light blues, to deep maroons and then, to jet black.

"He's gone mad…" said Vinny, moving over to where his wife and now free son were cowering, and desperately trying to escape the tiny room.

"Dad I'm scared!" whispered Vince.

Vinny put a reassuring hand on Vince's shoulder, and then pulled him back, so he was barring the way between his son and Raith. Verity stopped clawing at the curtain, and both she and her husband were morbidly transfixed by the black glowing ball of light that had formed in the centre of the room, above the lit candles and their belongings.

The strange light seemed thicker than ordinary light, and it seemed to pulsate, making the heavy feeling in the room into a pounding rhythm. Spidery tendrils began to seep out of the central mass, and creep their way across the room.

Raith stared at the light too, smiling.

"Oh you needn't protect your son, I wont harm him… it's you I want." Raith grinned; his yellow teeth looking wolf like and sinister in the strange glow.

"Why?" asked Verity, her voice strong. Only her husband could detect the tiny quake of fear in its tone.

Raith laughed, a hallow, eerie sound.

"Tell me Verity, Vinny, do you know what it's like to fail at something? To be unable to do the thing you love the most? To be a complete and utter failure in your chosen field? Because that's what I am, a failure." Raith's voice was filled with bitterness.

"You see, I was determined to be a jazz artist. Right from a young age I wanted to be really, really good. But my music teachers despaired of me. Not for lack of trying, I practiced every day. I just had no natural aptitude, at trumpet, saxophone, trombone, piano, double bass, bass guitar, jazz guitar I was awful. Heck, I even tried jazz violin! But no, I was a failure."

Raith's speech had reached a frenzied pitch, until he was actually yelling at the Noir family. Now he was calm, and continued his tale.

"So I decided to cheat. I managed to find something I was good at… I assume you've heard of the Evil Arts? Well, this is what I am good at. And it turns out, that using my talents, I can finally achieve my goal. Now all I ask of you, Verity, Vinny… are your souls."

The Noirs stared at him.

"What?" they both asked.

"And I'm afraid I'm going to take them…" Raith grinned widely.

"That's, that's not possible!" Vinny said, pulling his wife and son behind him so they were as far away from the madman as possible.

"Oh isn't it? Just watch." hissed Raith.

He clicked his fingers and the black light exploded.

Vinny and Verity began to scream. Not normal screams, but terrifying high pitched squeals, unlike any sound that Vince had ever heard before. He ran across the room, torn between wanting to help his parents, and wanting to get away.

At that moment, the stage room door was flung open and Joey, Brian Ferry and the club's manager burst in.

"Oh my god…" they all said simultaneously.

They all watched in horror as strange, ghostly streams of what appeared to be smoke seeped out of Verity and Vinny's bodies and into the black swirling mass. Raith was nowhere to be seen.

Mercifully, it was all over in a matter of seconds, but for Vince it seemed like three lifetimes had passed. An eight year old is about as aware as death as most people are of the sky. You know it's there, hanging over you, but you can never truly understand its magnitude. Vince became all too aware of the magnitude of death that night. He also learnt the hardest lesson of all childhood: your parents aren't all powerful.

He learnt that just as their bodies dropped to the ground, lifeless. They both wore aghast expressions on their faces, their eyes vacant, mouths slightly open… they were still holding hands…. but that didn't change anything. They were dead.

In the centre of the room, where once the black cloud had pulsated, now stood a figure. It was wearing a white suit and hat. Its hair was long and braided, and hung down straight. Its face was black and white but its eyes pulsed glowing red. This was Warren Raith.

This was the Spirit of Jazz.

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Reviews, as ever are apprciated. 


	12. Chapter 12

**The chapter is for Corrine, the violence is for Adele : ). And it has to be said: I don't care about science, so don't moan to me about inaccuracies.**

**Chapter 12**

Light suddenly erupted before Vince's eyes and the Spirit of Jazz fell backwards. The fully recovered Bollo had grabbed Howard and his chair and was legging it across the room and out of the door. Joey and Naboo continued to wage their light war on the Spirit.

Vince stood still, too racked by his memories to move. The overwhelming chasm of emptiness yawned in his heart. It wasn't, like so many people claimed, like having the wound reopened. That would imply that the pain felt fresh and piercing to Vince. It didn't. It felt dull, achingly dull.

Then Vince began to feel what he had felt years before, when the initial pain had subsided. Anger. All consuming hate. At the way his parents were taken from him, the selfish way their lives were cast aside, at the Spirit. But most of all, at the music itself.

The way that young Vince had reasoned was, that if jazz music didn't exist his parents would still be alive. An irrational view to some… but to the eight year old Vince it made perfect sense.

Bryan Ferry had found Vince at the house, a week or so after the funeral, when the hot, sticky weather had broken and had been replaced by thunderstorms and wild winds. Vince was to be moving in with Bryan and had gone back to collect his books, records, clothes and his cat, Bagheera. Bryan hadn't felt comfortable, being in Vinny and Ruth's house. He picked up some of their pictures and more personal items he thought Vince would like in the future and put them in a box. Joey had helped, going through a cleansing ritual in the house.

They decided to call in house clearance people to deal with the rest… Joey had thought, sadly, that death seemed to bring along endless amounts of paper work and administration. The house was to be sold and the money would be spent on Vince's upkeep. It was all so final.

Bryan and Joey glanced round the kitchen, still scattered with letters, notes, pictures, crumbs, leftover breakfast… like time had just stopped. For Vince and Verity it had.

From upstairs came a tremendous noise of frenzy. Bagheera, in his traveling case arched his back and hissed in fear. The pair ran upstairs and pushed open Vince's bedroom door.

Inside was chaos. Bits of ripped up paper fell through the air, like leaves from a tree, the remains of jazz music books scattered on the floor. Dozens of jazz records, smashed to pieces lay around like jagged black tears. Art Tatum's piano key snapped in two.

Vince stood in the middle of it all, his fists bruised, his hands bleeding from punching the walls and tearing apart records. His chest heaved as he took deep shaky breaths. Suddenly, they broke into gasping sobs and the young boy fell to the floor, as though he could hardly bear to stand.

Joey went forward and picked up Vince's small form. Bryan picked up the small suitcase and together with Bagheera, they left the house. None of them looked book. The incident was never spoken of again and Vince began to wonder if it had been a dream, something he'd made up to fill gaps in his memory.

But now that all powerful anger was back, but this time Vince could see who the real culprit was in all this. Not the music he'd forced himself to hate. It was the twisted soul who had stolen away his parents, who had corrupted his love for jazz.

"Come on Vince, lets go!" yelled Joey, grabbing hold of his wrist.

Vince nodded, as Naboo continued to through sparks of light at the Spirit. But now the Spirit was fighting back with a strange orange energy, forcing Naboo to step backwards. With one final surge Naboo fired directly at the Spirit's chest, sending him flying backwards. Naboo, Joey and Vince followed in Bollo's wake, pulling the door shut behind them and barring it.

In the corridor Bollo had removed Howard's bonds and upon seeing his friend, Vince let out a strangled mew of shock. Howard's skin was pasty and his hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat. His breathing looked so shallow his chest was barely rising and falling. Vince fell to the floor next to where Howard was lying.

"Howard?" he whispered, realizing that tears were forming in his eyes.

The older man opened his eyes. "Vince" he said quietly.

"Oh god, Howard, look I'm so, so sorry about today… I was such a prick… and … and this is all my fault!" he choked out.

The Vince's eyes went hard. A plan had formulated in his mind. He hoped it would work…and if it didn't… well, it was better to die an avenging angel than a coward, he reasoned.

"But I swear, I'm going to end this. Tonight." he whispered to Howard.

"Be careful." he said his, voice strained and cracked. But Howard new this was just something Vince had to do.

Naboo and Joey stood quietly as Vince stood up, his back stiff with resolve.

"Can you two do anything for him?" he asked.

Naboo and Joey looked at each other. "Well… we can treat the flesh wounds… and try to bring him round." Naboo ventured. Howard's condition was alarming but, at that time, not potentially fatal.

"Good. Stay here." said the young raven haired man. He pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket, headed towards the door and began to open, to enter the bar again.

"What are you doing?" yelled Bollo, Naboo and Joey simultaneously.

"I'm going to end this." he answered simply.

"Vince you can't possibly think that you-" began Naboo.

"This isn't your fight Naboo." said Vince quietly.

"But he has power that you can't even begin to imagine!" argued Naboo. The he looked down at the floor. He realised how 'Disney' that sounded.

Vince turned, a small, a small smile on his lips.

"Yes… but that isn't _all_ of him"

With that, he retreated back through the door, the inky blackness consuming him.

Naboo stepped forward, but Joey laid a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"He knows what he's doing." Joey reassured Naboo with a tight smile.

"I hope you're right…" the shaman replied.

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The Spirit of Jazz cursed at itself in the darkness. The fight had cost it precious time. It could feel his strength draining constantly. The Spirit was still strong… but Warren Raith was getting older. He was also ill. He could feel it in his bones. Raith was dying.

Of course the Spirit had expected this. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the diminishing health of his host being, rather, it chose to ignore it. The Spirit sighed. Of course, it wasn't as if the Sprit wasn't used to changing host bodies. It was just so… bothersome.

The Spirit found itself smiling. Raith… the naïve fool. When he had called upon the Spirit two decades ago the mortal had assumed that he would be the one to have control over the Spirit! Of course, by the time Raith realised that he was now imprisoned, half man, half ghost and every movement was controlled by a deranged Voodoo essence it was far too late to do anything about.

That was what Vince and Verity were. Or Ruth and Vinny. Channels. The Spirit needed someone with musical talent … Jazz talent to give it enough power to move into another 'host' mortal body. It was just Raith who cast the spell, the Spirit settled on him because there seemed to be little resistance.

Easing itself upwards, the Spirit stood up, leaning on the bar. The suit Raith was wearing felt wet… the whole bar was waterlogged. Burst pipes and the hosing down after the fire had taken it's toll on the club. The damp smell was bitter.

_this isn't what i wanted_

That was another thing that the Spirit was noticing. Raith was beginning to voice his displeasure more and more. Frankly, it was annoying. The Spirit couldn't wait to change bodies… once Noir was dead, he could use his, the Spirit reasoned. Weird nose though… but you can't have everything.

Vince cleared his throat and the Spirit jumped. The young man was stood not ten feet away, on top of the bar. Grinning.

"Oh, sorry didn't you hear me? It's probably your age…" Vince smiled again.

The Spirit swallowed the tiny bubble of panic. How had that mortal known? Still, this was the chance to begin the ritual.

"Can you remember how beautiful it was in here once? I remember. Everywhere was colourful.." Vince carried on wistfully.

The Spirit grinned and reached for Vince's comb so that he'd be able to begin the rite again… only to find it was gone.

"Looking for this?" asked Vince, holding the purple comb in a gloved hand, taunting the Spirit with it. "Sorry, thought I better take it back. Possession is nine tenths of the law, you know."

The red eyes began to glow. "You better give that back, boy."

Vince just smiled, benignly. "Nope"

The orange light surged into him, jolting every nerve to scream out with pain. It was like having each and every part of his body stabbed with a million fiery needles. And then, just as quickly it was over.

'_It's working' _thought Vince, as he jumped down behind the bar. He looked up and smiled at the ceiling. He could see the cables…

"Show yourself boy!" screamed the Spirit, but his voice broke into a nasal gasp of infuriation, rather than a boom of anger.

Vince stood up. "You tired?" he asked, chidingly.

Then something Vince hadn't been banking on happened, as the bottle of gin the Spirit threw at him exploded on the mirror just behind his head, a piece of glass ripping Vince's white skin open at his left temple. A flash of scarlet trickled down the young man's cheek, spilling over onto his collar.

"You bastard!" screamed Vince. "If I need plastic surgery, I'll kill you! AGAIN!"

"What makes you think you gon' kill me the first time boy?" asked the Spirit, grinning manically, his skull like features grotesque in the low light of the bar.

Vince clambered onto the counter again.

"This." he said simply, as he jumped up and wrenched on of the electricity cables off the ceiling, and held it safely in his sheathed hands. The electricity crackled out of the end of the cable, turning white, blue, green, purple and then blood red. It made Vince's hair stand on end, which in any other situation he would think was pretty cool. Now though, Vince was entirely focused on the task in hand, with the Spirit as his captive audience.

"You know what? I would've never have been the person you wanted me to be. You know why?" Vince's voice dropped, low and dangerous ... "Cos I am Electro Boy"

With that he threw the live electric cable into the pool of water at The Spirit of Jazz's feet, and then leapt behind the bar.

The Spirit tried to run. But Warren Raith, still alive in there, somewhere, didn't. This was retribution, punishment… freedom.

The light erupted turning white, blue, green, purple and then blood red as the fames licked up, engulfing the Spirit's form.

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**12 down one to go. Will it end happily? Please review!**


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